Irrefutable Arson
by pocket-doctor
Summary: A year after Watson left to live with Mary, and many weeks after his last investigation, Holmes finally has a case to work on. But arson was always a challenge, even for Sherlock. WARNING: Minor adult themes. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

"The thing about a fire, Mr Holmes, is that there ain't any evidence left."

"Let me be the judge of that, inspector," Sherlock Holmes said with a roll of his neck. Stepping past the irritated police officer, he slowed and studied the building.

_Five stories before the fire, two stories left. Intended target either fourth or fifth floor. Adjacent buildings remained untouched, meaning controlled fire, meaning arson. Access points to the roof and fifth story, unreachable from south, easy access from north. Use of front door? Possible. Unlikely._

Scanning over the chain links on the wrought iron gate and the bolts on the flat door showed no sign of a forced break in. The stench of smoke still lingered in the air despite the blaze not touching the first floor. Not a chemical fire, from the smell. Up the first flight of stairs and the smell was stronger. The fire had been completely extinguished, but that was a mere ten minutes before Sherlock heard the news. A dull grey haze clung to the ceiling and lingered in the air, stinging at the sleuth's eyes already bloodshot from lack of sleep. Sudden news of the fire was unexpected to the detective, but it wasn't the first time he'd been torn from his unnavigable nest that had shielded him from seeing the light of day and breathing air that wasn't choked with dust. Holmes wasn't complaining though; it had been weeks since a case showed up, and now that three stories of an upper-middle class house had mysteriously burned down, he was thankful that at least something had come his way.

Continuing his way through the narrow hallway and up what was left of the second story stairs, the detective became careful of every step he was taking. The virtually untouched apartment complex was suddenly replaced by a heap of burned wood and embers, fallen timber, broken pipes, melted metals. Working his way through the ruins would be near impossible, but Sherlock did manage to see one thing; if there was evidence of the source of the fire, where it started, or who the intended victim was, it wouldn't have outlasted the blaze. Looking up at the neighbouring buildings, it was easy to find where the vandal would have entered from if the roof was their desired access.

Back out on the street and away from the choking smoke, the inspector hurried to grab hold of Sherlock.

"Mr Holmes, we only 'ave one victim, a Miss Ramona Helton," he explained as the consulting detective hurried towards the building directly to the north. "She worked at a brothel just south of 'ere, had a boyfriend on the other side of town, but I ain't seein' how that's important. There ain't nothin' special 'bout an 'ousefire."

"You just do your job, Wyrick," Holmes called out as he climbed the stairs to the second flat, "and I'll make sure you throw the right suspect behind bars."

The sleuth was quickly bounding up the stairs to the fourth story, lack of sleep evidently having no effect on his physical performance. Having a case to solve was definitely raising his spirits, even if Scotland Yard was treating it like an accident. Sherlock knew better, although his high hopes of a case may have been ignoring the option that maybe it was a simple accident. Emerging out onto the roof and glancing around him, however, he changed his mind about the possibility of it being an accident.

_Lock broken from the outside, suspect entered via target building. Probable use of a fuse on the fourth or fifth story, leapt to the adjacent roof, down the stairwell, out on the street and gone before rising suspicion. Irrefutable arson._

Peering down over the edge, Holmes had a clear overview of the area. Three stories worth of burnt rubble lay on the remainder of the flat, smoke still rising from the recently extinguished wood. No scratch marks were visible on the corners. No ladder was used. Despite the suspect having to do a running jump from the fifth story to the fourth, there were no signs of impact, so the suspect would be fairly agile or smart enough to cover their tracks. The fire hadn't made any considerable contact with the building. Other than the broken lock on the stairwell door, nothing of importance could be found on the roof. The suspect was being careful with how they played out the act of vandal, showing obvious signs of past experience. A high chance of a professional job as well, but Sherlock wasn't jumping to any unprovable conclusions just yet.

A number of possibilities to the reason of arson ran through the detective's mind as he made his way to the front of the burnt down building. Was it for fun? Revenge? Some sort of grudge? Maybe the intended victim was holding something incriminating against the arsonist? Whoever the suspect was, they only wanted the one person dead.

Holmes confronted the inspector, trying his best to not let a smug grin settle across his face. Even if arson was one of his least favourite crimes, it meant a challenge. Lack of evidence would make it hard to find whoever was responsible, but a tough challenge was always exciting after a period of nothing. "I assume that Scotland Yard is treating this as an accident?"

"Just a gas leak, that's all. Why should we treat it as thin' else then, huh? There's 'ardly enough proof of arson."

"Yes, I suspected so," the detective sighed, "but I can assure you, this is anything but an accident. Our suspect knew what he was doing, possibly a professional in the field. Any witnesses?"

The inspector shook his head. Nobody had seen someone suspicious lurking around either of the two apartments. Despite Sherlock's requests, he would not be able to view the victim's body for inspection. Ramona Helton was nothing more than a scorched corpse, any clues being completely destroyed in the fire.

After extracting as much information from Inspector Wyrick as the consulting detective deemed needed, it became clear that four other people lived in the top three floors of the apartment, and all of them were out when the fire took place. Coincidence? Hardly. The next factor that seemed the most important was the victim's place of work, _The Madeline Mathe_, one of the classiest brothels in London. Classy for a whore house, that is. The detective considered that maybe a less than civil transaction had gone down between the lady Ramona Helton and a client, causing her to upset the customer only for him to extract revenge. As far fetched as it sounded, Holmes wasn't ruling out that option. It wouldn't hurt to ask around at the brothel for any signs of dispute between the lady and her clients.

Upon entering the the fairly elaborate place of business, it appeared that the news of Miss Helton's tragic death had not dramatically impacted the running of the place. As he took a spot at the counter of the bar, Sherlock became aware that the killer might have been in that room with him. The chance was low, but the thought of danger finally made the detective's blood pump. Even the consideration of needing to pursue a target, prevent a crime, or event defeat an opponent in a duel made Sherlock feel that which he had been longing for more than a month.

Detective Holmes was out of the brothel within minutes. After politely turning down an offer from one of the ladies inside, he quickly discovered that Ramona Helton had only one client the night before. The customer left before they could catch his name after a fairly heated argument with the lady, leaving presumably with personal information before actually finishing the deal. Unfortunately, the detective was no closer to catching the arsonist than before, but he now had some understanding of his background; he was prepared well in advance, had some experience in the area, was careful about what tracks he left, and only entered the brothel to obtain information. The suspect, despite paying, had no intention of sleeping with the prostitute. Perhaps there was a moral confliction involved?

Sinking back down into the old wooden chair behind his desk clattered with discarded papers and notes, Sherlock felt a small pang of disappointment of his new case. It was of course exciting to have something that Scotland Yard wouldn't be sticking their noses in, dismissing it as an accident, but the lack of clues had the consulting detective stumped. John would probably have an idea of where to go next and who to talk to, but Sherlock hadn't seen him for more than a year now. Ever since his friend left to live with Mary in the country, Holmes had felt slightly lonely without him. Mrs Hudson still kept him company and made sure checked if he was still alive, and he did meet some interesting personalities on his cases, but it wasn't the same. He missed having the doctor almost unwillingly follow him everywhere. Not to mention saving the detective's life more than once and being a necessary assistance on multiple cases. But if Watson was happy living with Mary, than the detective was happy for him.


	2. Chapter 2

A frantic knocking at his door woke Sherlock out of his sleep. The light coming in from a single crack in a curtain told him it was daylight. He couldn't have been asleep for long, so it was still the same day that he slipped out of consciousness in his desk chair. The knocking at the wooden door was growing impatient, and despite the pins and needles in his left leg arguing with the rest of him, Holmes stumbled through the mess on his floor and threw the door open. Standing in front of him was Inspector Wyrick, and from the smell of him, it was clear he had been near fire in the past half hour. From the ash still clinging to the knees of his breeches, it had been less than twenty minutes. But from his lack of breath, red eyes, and dirt covering his hands and cheeks, it had been less than ten. The inspector needn't have said a word before Sherlock was grabbing his coat and rushing past him out the door.

Within minutes he was standing out the front of what remained of a single story house located in a lower class neighbourhood. Wyrick had been mainly silent, obviously accepting the fact that a fire at a second prostitute's home couldn't have been coincidence.

_Broken lock on front gate. Cut with wire cutters. Smell? Gas. Neighbouring buildings untouched. Controlled fire. Single intended victim, also a prostitute. Moral intentions more likely than personal grudge. Revenge still an option._

With little physical evidence to be found around the remains of the house, Sherlock began bombarding the inspector with questions, many of which he already knew the answer to. Where did she work? How many people died? Any witnesses? Taking the case up with Scotland Yard would be fruitless, as they were still treating it as an accident. It meant he would have the case to himself without the interjection of authority, but he would still be working alone. With another death of a lady working at _The Madeline Mathe, _and the police now being useless to Sherlock, the brothel was his next target. Losing two employees to a fire was bound to be raising suspicion. At the very least, he could prevent more women from being killed.

Much to the detective's disappointment but slight relief, the brothel was closed. Breaking in would be pointless and dangerous as he could hear people inside. The detective realised, when he saw the simple wooden sign reading 'closed' hanging on the inside of the door, that he'd been careless. Without thinking things through, he'd come to conclusion that the arsonist would have gone back to the whorehouse in order to retrieve more information. Someone stupid would have done that. But the detective had more than enough information to know that the suspect was capable of avoiding such errors. Normally he wouldn't have made that misguided judgement, but somehow, to Sherlock's confusion, he had. People made mistakes. Not Holmes. But an arson case with the intention of murder was definitely uncommon; obviously the lack of physical evidence was clouding his mind. If only he had something to go from.

Pacing back and forth between his desk and his door, Sherlock was stumped. He hated to admit it, but he was. As he revised all he knew over and over again in his head, he could only come to one deduction; arson was frustrating. The detective was looking for someone with a moral view against prostitution, somebody with personal hate for _The Madeline Mathe, _or a person extracting revenge on two women who just happened to be prostitutes of the same brothel. There was something, some small detail that would solve the case, that Sherlock had overlooked. His mind turned from confusion to anger to confusion before finally settling on frustration. He could feel the anger coursing through him; maybe fighting would be the best way to relieve his anger and clear his head of the arson case. Looking over his notes with a free head would let him notice that small detail. However, when he grabbed his coat and marched downstairs, a familiar face greeting him when he swung open the door relieved him of his frustration.

_Clean shaven, well rested, new apparel. Faint smell of shoe polish. Wedding ring, polished. Tan line under the collar, meaning recent travel abroad. Visible trace of mud clinging to boots. Smile. Not a business call._

"I thought you'd be pleased to see me," the doctor said with a grin. Sherlock could only stand there, his need to punch someone replaced with his need to hug a certain someone. As if a slap to the face, an idea hit the detective. Just an tiny idea, more so a hunch, but it was better than nothing.

Without even inviting John inside, Holmes spun around and raced back to his room. Following close behind him were the running steps of Watson who waited at the door of his room while the detective rummaged through piles of notes and incomplete experiments. With a sigh, the doctor called out, "If you need a hand, just ask."

"No, I'm perfectly capable of finding something myself, John. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Can't an old friend stop by without being questioned? Mary finally gave me some time off, so I figured I'd pay you a visit."

There was a hint of forced sarcasm in his voice, nearly disguising the more genuine tone of sincerity and concern. Sherlock's ears picked it up though, and he stopped his search to look up at the doctor to study him further. There wasn't much more he could pick up from the distance between them and the dim lighting in the room. Instead, the detective would have to resort to actually asking Watson what the tone of his voice meant.

John kicked through the discarded clothes and books scattered along the floor towards the fireplace, stopping to sit on the surprisingly empty chair. The behaviour from his friend was so obvious even a blind man could pick it up; _he has something on his mind, not something good. He wants to talk about it, but unsure how to._ The detective quickly shook the deducting thoughts of his mind. If John really wanted to talk about something, he would tell him in person.

"There's something you're trying to avoid saying," Sherlock said, tilting his head to the side and creasing his brow in thought as the doctor held the detective in an unbroken gaze. Holmes stood and slowly stifled through the unsorted possessions on his deck, searching for the address. Every few seconds he would glance to his right at Watson, who was still watching the detective intently. He tried to shake it off. After all, Sherlock wasn't famous for listening to other people's problems. There was a case at hand, and that's what Sherlock was renowned for.

After it became evident that what he was looking for wasn't there, the consulting detective leaned his back against the desk and scanned the room. Inspector Wyrick had told him the address, and he was sure he wrote it down somewhere. He said it himself that it might be important, but he'd dismissed the thought the same way he ignored Watson as he stood up from the fireplace and walked over to him. That was, until he turned his head to meet the green eyes of the doctor, holding an emotion unfamiliar to the detective. Before he had the chance to question Watson's intents, he found the space between them narrowing. Holmes realised with shock what was happening only moments before John slowly, cautiously, brushed a gentle kiss to the detective's lips. A few seconds passed and Watson gradually pulled back to look into Sherlock's dark stare.

It was impossible to see what Sherlock was thinking, his expression blank, breathing lightly through his slightly open mouth. Both of them were unsure of how to continue, merely blinking back at each other, faces only inches apart. Sherlock realised that John was waiting for him to say something. Swallowing past the forming knot in his throat, he murmured, "John, are you sure you-"

"Did you miss me?"

He paused, multiple answers running through his head, quickly deciding the best way to respond. It was hard to think with Watson's fingers starting to curl through Sherlock's hand on the surface of the desk. Eventually, he said, "We certainly made a strong team together, and I-"

"Did. You. Miss me?"

There was an unmistakable quiver in the man's voice, a hint of anxiety mixed in with the intimidation. If Sherlock answered in any other way, he would hurt his friend on a whole new level.

"More than anything else."

John's other hand carefully clasped Sherlock's unshaven jaw, holding him still as he leaned in again. Sherlock parted his lips and pressed back against the soft kiss, squeezing the doctor's fingers entwined in his own. The detective was cursing at himself for being so blind before. It wasn't Watson's help on the major cases and backing support that he'd missed, but the man himself. His company, the friendly face welcoming him home after a long night out, his willingness with keeping the detective on his feet, not because he had to, but because he was a friend. And at that moment, with the doctor's firm grip on the back of his neck and thumb tracing circles on the back of his wrist, Sherlock realised that he was much more than a friend.

After another minute passed of the two men pressing gentle kisses to the other's mouth, John pulled his fingers away from the desk. Before Holmes could respond, Watson was slowly working to undo the top button of Sherlock's creased white shirt. He broke the kiss, pressing his forehead against the detective's. Just as the second fastening came loose and Sherlock felt the doctor's cool touch against his chest, he panicked. At the sound of footsteps outside his chamber door. The detective unwillingly pushed his friend away. He was about to change his mind and pull their bodies back together, but the rapping at the wooden door had other plans. The doctor sighed and backed away as Holmes begrudgingly hurried to answer the knocking on the door, remembering to close the fastenings on his shirt before swinging it open to greet Inspector Wyrick, trying his best to not look infuriated at the sudden interruption.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry this one's so short, I've been working on a lot of other things lately. A fair few changes to the previous chapter though. There will be more... intimate moments after this.

They arrived at the target destination within minutes. The sun was setting just below the horizon. Within seconds Holmes had determined that the house was unoccupied. Breaking the front door down would be unnecessary; having time off from a case had given Sherlock plenty of time to refine his lock picking skills. It took less than a minute after arriving for the detective and his doctor to have slipped inside. It was fairly dark indoors, but light enough to make out shapes and objects. Immediately to their right was a few items of interest.

_Male boots, size 10. Well maintained. Traces of ash nearby. Coat pockets, empty. Faint smell of smoke. Wealth status: lower-middle class._

Making his way through the small house, Sherlock picked up on dozens more small clues. John could only ghost behind, watching as Sherlock skimmed over possession, letters, jewellery, paintings, decor. It didn't take long for him to find more than enough evidence to link Ramona Helton's love interest to the case. There were obvious signs of dispute between the couple, cheques made out to the man's name, and almost too easily, he found a pair of bolt cutters, a box of matches and cans of gasoline, and a very interesting note which Sherlock took as evidence against the arsonist.

As he scanned over the contents of the first floor with Watson hovering behind, the detective was counting down in his head. By calculating the time it took to respond to the fires, for the inspector to reach Sherlock Holmes, how long the suspect hung around the crime scene, and how far away the suspect's home was to the most recent crime, he had less than a minute before that front door would open again. He gathered enough information as he deemed necessary.

The sound of a gate opening outside made Sherlock become aware of every step he was taking. A few possibilities ran through his head: they could very easily slip out the back door unnoticed and leave the case after throwing the suspect into the hands of Scotland Yard, or they could remain indoors in an attempt of catching the killer themselves. The second option was much too exciting to let go. Throwing a grin towards Watson and nodding, he dashed to the entrance on the house.

Obvious enough to Sherlock, the suspect would open the front door, immediately turning to their right to kick off their boots and throw off their jacket. The smell of smoke on the other coat meant that another one hung next to it, one that was exposed directly to a fire. As the detective heard boots outside the front door, he felt his heart rate quicken tremendously. He hadn't faced a violent encounter outside the boxing ring in months.

A key turned in the lock. Slowly, the wooden door swung open. Just as he had expected, the man turned his right, completely unaware of Holmes and Watson in the darkness to his left. The detective stepped forward. An easy target. He raised his right hand, bringing his wrist down under the suspect's right ear. Tripped his foot as he spun in reaction. Pulled down on his left shoulder. Kneed him between the shoulder blades as he fell. Held his hands behind his back. In a matter of seconds, Holmes had the man pinned down on his stomach. Unable to stand up or fight back, the arsonist could only lay there as Sherlock examined him. Nothing he wasn't expecting; he'd been near the fire, cut through a lock, tore his clothes on a fence. There was no need to question him.


	4. Chapter 4

I know it's been a long time since I updated this, but rest assured I haven't completely and utterly forgotten about it. To be truthful, though, it had literally passed my mind for several weeks until someone reminded me that I was actually writing it. 'Oh hey, what happened to that Sherlock Holmes fanfiction you were writing?' 'What Sherl- _OH_'

Also, yes, smut is going to happen. Sweet, sweet, smut.

* * *

><p>Leaving the arsonist tied on the floor, Holmes left with a few interesting letters with Watson tailing behind. The case, while it wasn't too original, had been solved. At least, most of it had been. The only stop before arriving back at his apartment was the crime scene to alert Scotland Yard of the suspect laying handcuffed in his own house. Mainly talking to himself, the detective spent the next while piecing the entire case together.<p>

"He'd been having troubles with Miss Helton, but it had been going on for months now," Holmes thought out loud, sitting at his desk with Watson trying to pay attention from in front of the fireplace. "She'd been employed at The Madeline Mathe before they met, but he still had a problem with her choice of occupation. And it wasn't just against her, it was against the whole business. But was it a moral confliction? Maybe. But she was the one ending the relationship, he was trying to keep it. He'd been trying to convince her to quit, but she had no intentions."

The detective paused, remembering the notes he'd picked up from the arsonist's house. "Expensive stationary, quality ink. He wouldn't waste money on this. Without even reading it we can tell it's been addressed to him from someone wealthier," Sherlock kept speaking his thoughts out loud, waving the pieces of parchment around. He flicked to the next one, expressing all the little differences in detail to Watson. "But some of these are obviously written by him, with no address. Now why would he be keeping what he wrote? Surely if he addressed a letter to someone else, he would no longer be in possession of it-"

"Sherlock-"

"-so he wasn't mailing them. Perhaps they returned the-"

"Sherlock-"

"letters to him. Two parts of a conversation that-"

"SHERLOCK."

Holmes jumped at his friend shouting his name, as if suddenly becoming aware that Watson was in the room. He looked over at the doctor, meeting his angered expression with the most innocent smile he could muster, and simply said, "Yes, Watson?"

"Could you stop talking for just a second?" John half yelled, half pleaded from where he was sitting. "Are you completely ignoring what I just did less than an hour ago, or have you actually forgotten?"

"Of course I can remember."

"So you are just neglecting it then?"

Sherlock slowly sunk back into his chair, losing visual contact with Watson. As much as he wanted to divert the conversation to something much more in his area, he knew he wouldn't be able to change the topic with ease. But what could he possibly say to the man sitting by the fireplace? That he wasn't completely alarmed by his friend's actions? That maybe he'd even slightly _enjoyed_ it? No, he couldn't say that. Could he?

Eventually the detective spoke. "Well," he began, "I can say that I have no idea why you did that, but I am glad you removed that horrendous strip of fur above your upper lip. It is completely beyond me how Mary put up with it this whole time."

Sherlock realised he must have said something wrong when Watson stood up, the rage on his face painted over with remorse, or pain.

"Was it something I said?" Holmes asked, sincere concern in his voice.

The doctor looked over at the detective sitting at his desk. "Do you have any idea how hard this is, Sherlock? I've been married for a year now to the woman I loved, my life has been simple, it has been safe, but I-"

"Loved, you said loved. Why did you use past tense?"

"What?"

"You said you've been married to woman you loved, not the woman you love. When I opened the door this afternoon I could see you are quite happily married - your ring had been recently polished and there were traces of flowers pinned to your coat."

"Will you just let me continue?" John spat, trying to keep his voice level. "My life has been simple. Compared to what it use to be, it's safe. But it's not better, Sherlock. I miss what I use to do, back here, where it was exciting. I didn't care if it was dangerous, if I had to run out of a burning building with seconds to spare or I would be dead, or if- if I was fighting off five thugs at once and then chasing one around the whole of London. And it wasn't just for the danger, or thrill seeking." He stopped to catch his breath, pausing for a second as if gathering his thoughts. "I miss it because it was with you, Sherlock." The detective sat up, eyeing Watson intently. His friend hadn't said anything like that before.

"The second you opened that door, I was fighting the urge to lunge in and hug you."

"And why didn't you?" Sherlock leaned forward, waiting for an answer.

"Because I'm an idiot," the doctor immediately mumbled in reply, clenching his hands into fists.

Holmes felt a pang of guilt; he'd made John stressed before, but it was nothing like this. He felt personally responsible for not being so open to Watson. If he wanted an embrace, that was fine by the detective. Standing up, Holmes took the few steps to the front of his desk and opened his arms, meeting Watson with a blank stare. The simple gesture meant a lot, coming from someone who was otherwise antisocial.

But even with Sherlock standing in front of his desk, arms wide and waiting for a hug, Watson hesitated. He didn't _exactly_ want to hug him. But what if Sherlock pushed him away? He hadn't given the detective much of a chance to react earlier, but now he'd had more than enough time to contemplate it. Eventually, when he felt Sherlock had waited too long, John decided. Stepping through the mess on the floor, he reached out, holding Sherlock's jaw with both hands and pulling himself in.

The detective's arms stayed open as Watson surprised him with an open mouthed kiss. For a few moments he wasn't sure how to respond. His mind shot to full speed, nearly a dozen scenarios playing out in his head, with two thoughts lingering on his mind; John's marriage, and their friendship. He felt that, rationally, he should be pushing him away, explaining the morals and consequences of their actions. But there was another part of him, an urge stronger than that to pull away, telling him to kiss back.

Sherlock's hands dropped down, grabbing John's waist and pulling him closer. As he felt Watson's fingers curl through his hair, he couldn't help but welcome in the tongue nudging at his mouth. He tried to analyse everything, John's breathing, his own heart rate, the palm on the back of his neck, but all coherent thoughts were lost when Watson forcefully pushed him back against the desk, the space between them disappearing completely. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how to react; how far exactly was his friend taking things? Even with Watson's hands trailing down his sides and around his back, he still had self control and needed to make the other man think. If John honestly thought it was a good idea to be grinding Sherlock's hips into the desk, then so be it. If there was the slightest hint of doubt in the man's actions, Holmes would stop it all.

A chance to speak finally arose when Watson broke the kiss, latching instead onto the skin under Sherlock's jaw. The move was enough to make him reconsider, but he held on.

"Watson," the detective's voice was barely a whisper, "are you sure you should be..."

The doctor paused, tongue lingering on the pulse of Sherlock's neck. Holmes could feel the grip on his back tighten, as if he was still thinking but didn't want him to slip out from underneath. A few seconds passed before he pulled back, resting his forehead on Sherlock's and looked into the tired eyes of the detective.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No, just-" Sherlock sighed. "I wouldn't want you doing anything you'll later regret."

"So you don't want me to stop?"

Holmes could only stare, irritated by his friend ignoring his attempted reassurance. Just as he was about to snap back something witty, Watson covered his mouth with his own and growled.


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry that it has been so long, but I have been relatively busy and I tend to write slowly when it comes to pure smut. This section is incomplete, but I decided to cut it here and upload because I'm not sure how long it will be until I can continue working on it. Enjoy.

...

Holmes couldn't help but feel a nudging pang of regret. He'd casually brushed away any physical feelings towards Watson, and now the man had spent more than a year with Mary. Of course, that meant the tongue slipping between his teeth was highly experienced, but there was still the sense of jealousy towards Mary. If he'd known earlier just how magnificently invigorating it was to feel Watson's firm grip on the small of his back, the detective would have made a move earlier.

Now was his chance. Sherlock tightened his grip on the desk, quickly judged its strength, then pushed himself up on the edge. The chilling touch of John's hands on the detective's bare skin was enough to make Sherlock arch up, letting Watson break the passionate kiss and pull the fabric over his head, leaving his torso naked in the cool air of the London apartment. The doctor tossed the clothing aside, pushing himself back against the other man, buttons of his suit scratching against Sherlock's chest.

Years of fighting in the rings had the detective a layer of muscle over his torso. Albeit, he'd never had a previous chance to use his physique for something non-violent. The feel of the other man's shirt fabric against his skin disappeared. He heard Watson's button-down shirt land near the fireplace. John pushed him back further, reaching under Sherlock's still clothed thighs and lifting him fully onto the desk. The mahogany furniture may have been old, but it was strong. It easily supported Holmes and the added weight of Watson practically lying on top of him, now reclaiming his mouth with a biting kiss. Parchments and utensils clattered to the ground as Sherlock spread his legs, welcoming the doctor between them. If the detective had any doubt left over, it disappeared in the instant that Watson trailed his hands down his sides, ran them over his stomach and palmed him through his breeches.

Watson pulled away from the kiss just as a drawn out, lust-driven moan escaped from Sherlock's throat. The detective could only lay in submission as the other man ran his tongue across his jaw and down his neck. Holmes arched his back, pushing harder into Watson's hand fondling at his groin. It had been so long since he felt the intimate, passionate touch of another. Sherlock pulled at the hem of what remained of his clothes, his body growing achingly impatient of the teasing. John immediately curled his fingers under the edge of the breeches, obviously wanting them off as desperately as Sherlock. The detective craned his head back and, unable to resists the experimental side of his mind, found the pulse on the doctor's neck. Concentrating on the beats, he let loose a low, surprisingly loud groan.

Sherlock lost track of the pulse he was counting as his mind wandered elsewhere. He flinched as the rest of his clothing was yanked downwards, the stale air of the room cold against his suddenly exposed skin. The light clutter of his breeches made him shudder at the thought of him laying bare-naked under his friend. Not uncomfortable, but inexperienced compared to the married man. Watson pressed himself between Sherlock's thighs and his strong hands straddled his waist. The doctor's mouth latched back onto the detective's, tongue darting back between his teeth. He moaned, grinding the rough fabric of his trousers hard into the incredibly aroused, naked man breathing heavily below him.

Sherlock could only take so much of the teasing, the grinding, and the erotic sounds before he slipped his hand between their bodies and tried pushing down Watson's trousers. Just out of reach. The other man quickly realised what he was doing and hastily tore them off. Sherlock flinched at the all too obvious feeling of Watson hard against his thigh. Feeling even more exposed to the intimacy between then, Sherlock dropped out of his purely bliss state and closed his eyes, trying to focus. He wasn't entirely new to sex, and although the past experience had readied him for what to was to come, the fact that it was John loving him on his own work desk was a different matter. The doctor slowly, cautiously took the detective between his fingers and smirked at Sherlock's audible exhaling as he stroked.

"You're tense," Watson's soft whisper caught Holmes off guard. Looking up, he caught the reassuring gaze of his friend, hair tousled and skin flushed, slight smile setting in. He tried to form a sentence, to let him know that he was comfortable, but nothing came out. All he could do was sigh and run his hand back through Watson's already tousled hair, pulling him down into a kiss.

The doctor sighed and dropped his head beside Sherlock's head. "I don't want to hurt you," he said, slowing down his southern movements. Holmes couldn't help it when his mind suddenly flashed to the thought of Watson standing over him, slamming his hips against the detective as he winces in pain and moans with pleasure.

"I've had worse," Sherlock managed to say with a flash of a smirk, although he was sure his vocal cords would cease to let out more than a shriek soon.

"You sadistic bastard," Watson propped himself up to give the detective a predatory look.

"I believe you mean masochist," he snapped back as John pushed his knees into the air, the sudden rough movement wiping the sly smile off his face.

However, the grin re-emerged as, much to John's questioning look, a single finger sled far too easily inside with only a sharp exhale from Sherlock. He squirmed his hips down, driving the single digit in deeper. It didn't take the world's greatest detective to tell that he paid certain 'attention' to that area. Watson was relieved; the whole act would go down a lot smoother than he anticipated. A slight hiss did manage to escape behind gritted teeth as the doctor eased in another finger, wrapping his other hand around his shaft to add simple pleasure to the pain. The greater difficulty was a relief on Sherlock's part; he enjoyed the tense moments of discomfort to further anticipate the pure bliss of his climb to climax, as much as he didn't admit it.

The ridges of the old wooden desk dug into Sherlock's back as he arched his spine; the pressure would undeniably leave bruises. Albeit, the slight discomfort in his back distracted him from the stretching of his entrance, helping him slightly with taking the two fingers inside him.

It didn't take long for the pain to become bearable. Sherlock's wincing through gritted teeth gradually became a slur of sharp breaths and moans. Occasionally he'd try to focus on Watson's own actions, instinctively keeping track of what sounds made him jerk his wrist faster and using that to his advantage. Sherlock did not enjoy being at the full control of John, even if it was in an area they hadn't previously explored with one another.

The detective's deducing thoughts came to a halt when he saw Watson quite dramatically stop stroking and spit onto his own palm all while holding eye contact. An indescribable emotion was washed upon his face; it would have been blatantly obvious were he not distracted by the doctor straightening and reaching back down between them. Before Sherlock could ready himself physically, the two digits disappeared and pain shot up his back as Watson slowly thrust into him, making him cover his mouth with his hand to muffle a sudden, loud, inevitable scream.


End file.
